


Sick

by themegalosaurus



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, F/M, Gen, Horror, Hurt Sam Winchester, Plot Twists, Reader-Insert
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-12
Updated: 2015-09-12
Packaged: 2019-09-12 23:22:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,391
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16881207
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/themegalosaurus/pseuds/themegalosaurus
Summary: "Reader is sick but doesn't tell Dean. He flips out when he finds out." (THIS FIC IS NOT WHAT YOU THINK)





	Sick

You’d been feeling sick on and off for about three weeks now but it was only in the last two days that it had gotten serious. You’d woken on Saturday morning with blurring in your vision and a real harsh rasp down the back of your throat. When you’d swung yourself out of bed and staggered outside, the motel parking lot had swung dangerously around you: you’d had a hand on the wall to steady yourself almost before you realised.

“Everything OK?” Dean had asked, and whether it was hunter’s caution or feminine pride or (more likely) the enormous crush on him that you’d been slowly incubating for months, you straightened yourself up and locked your shaking knees and smiled at him and said “Yeah don’t worry about it, I’m good.”

Luckily the boys were fast enough runners that when you’d doubled over, chasing that black dog, and half hacked up a lung in the middle of Helena National Forest, they’d been far enough ahead that they hadn’t even heard you. So you were pretty sure you were getting away with it. If you could just hang on for a little longer, it would clear itself up soon enough. It was probably just a virus, or a bacterial thing. This stuff never lingered. Right?

Thing was, it didn’t really feel like it was getting much better. The trees whipping past the windows of the Impala seemed like they were a particularly offensive shade of green; or they were too leafy; or something, something about them was making your stomach turn. You looked down at the milkshake in your hand, bought for you by Dean at the diner where he and Sam had grabbed breakfast about twenty miles back. You loved milkshakes. And Dean, apparently, had noticed that, and he’d bought one in your favourite flavour just for you; so you’d flashed him a smile and sucked on the straw in what you hoped was a seductive manner but now the lumpy cold mess of it felt like it was congealing in your stomach, and there was something like half a bucket of the stuff still left.

“You gonna finish that, Y/N?” Sam said.

You looked over and he was trying to look concerned but the dimples in his cheeks were a dead giveaway. Glancing a little guiltily at Dean in the seat in front of you, you shook your head and slid the milkshake into Sam’s hands.

“Yeahhh,” he laughed, and had the straw between his lips before you could even decide whether it was worth warning him about the fuzzy, heavy lump compressing your lungs. Oh well, you decided. Too late now. And Dean would be so insufferable if he realised that you were sick. It had taken forever to convince him to take you seriously; if you told him now that you were feeling too unwell to eat then he’d be back to treating you like a kid within the instant. So, you breathed deep and sucked it up.

It was about ten miles later that Sam started to cough.

It started out as just a tickle in the back of his throat, something quiet that you barely heard above the music; but before long he was folded over at the waist, head almost resting on the dash, hacking raw and choked and painful with his hands over his mouth.

“What in hell, Sammy?” Dean said, and he pulled the Impala over with a jolt and a jerk that let you know things were serious. Dean was always so careful with the car. But now he was only looking at Sam, his hands on Sam’s shoulders and his hair and even his face, and then Sam lifted his head at last and his chin and his hands were bloody. His breathing was coming in thick, heavy rasps.

“Dean,” he said, “Dean,” and it sounded like he was drowning.

You were terrified, frozen in the back seat, wanting to do anything but conscious that you weren’t wanted or needed right now.

“Deann,” Sam said, and cleared his throat with a wince. “You know what this is,” he said.

“No way,” Dean said. “No way. We were so careful, Sammy, there’s just…” and he trailed off, looking at the polystyrene cup on the floor by Sam’s feet.

He swung round then, to look at you.

“Y/N,” he said, and his voice was different, like really different to any way he’d ever spoken to you before. There was usually a kind of nice curling edge to it, a light tickle of teasing that let you know he liked you even when he was trying to be all business. But now. Now it was hard and gruff and sharp. He didn’t like you at all right now. “Tell me that you’re not sick.”

You swallowed, and it was painful in your throat.

“It’s not…” and you gestured at Sam, pale under the bright red of the blood. “I’m not sick like _that._ ”

“ _Christ,_ Y/N,” Dean said. “How long?”

You were silent, afraid of him, and he yelled it this time. “HOW LONG?”

“Since… um… about three weeks now,” you said. “Just after we met up.”

Dean closed his eyes. When he opened them, he wasn’t angry any more; wasn’t anything, really, only quiet. He didn’t even look at you this time. He just looked at Sam.

“Told you,” Sam said, strained, and he started coughing again. He didn’t stop, this time; coughed and coughed and coughed, out of the car and down until he was kneeling on the side of the road, until the tears were streaming down his face, until a big dark mess of blood and something else you didn’t want to think about landed heavy in the dirt and Sam gasped, a horrible whining scraping thing, and stopped coughing or moving or doing anything altogether. And that was it. There he was, right there, on the side of I-90 with gravel in his hair and his eyes half-open and his skin already shifting into grey. And you half out of the back door of the car and Dean there in the dirt next to him, shaking and shaking as he pushed Sam’s hair off his forehead in a useless little repeated gesture that he couldn’t seem to stop.

“Sam,” he said. “Sam.”

“I don’t understand,” you said, and you hadn’t even meant for it to be out loud but somehow it was, strident and awkward in the empty air.

“What were you doing, when we met you?” Dean asked. His hand moved over Sam’s face again.

“Hunting a skinwalker,” you said.

“Wanna ask what we were doing?” Dean said. His voice was heavy, monotone. He curled his fingers under Sam’s jaw. Little rusty flakes of blood feathered off where they touched.

You didn’t want to ask, not at all, but you had to. “OK,” you said.

“There was this virus,” Dean said. “Taking out kids at the university. Strangest thing, though, it didn’t seem to affect women – not really, not seriously. But it sure took down the guys.”

“Huh,” you said.

“That’s why we left it,” he said. He put his hands on his knees and stood. “Got out of there, called up Ellen to give the job to a pair of girls. Safest way.”

“Right,” you said.

“Thing is,” he said. He was moving now, stepping towards the back of the car; and you were paralysed, sat there, still. “Thing is, women can be carriers. It’s easy to deal with, of course. You just gotta know about it and then you can dose ‘em up quick with rosemary and silver fennel and they’ll get better right away.”

You didn’t say anything, then.

“Of course, if they _don’t_ say anything and they just _carry it_ ,” Dean said, and you could hear the chink of iron in the trunk. “If they’re stupid enough to do that and they end up swappin’ spit with a guy? Poor sucker will be dead within two hours.”

You were looking down at the ground, at Sam’s hand, the fingers of it bent just a little and the fraying cuff of his shirt. Dean’s boots came into view. You heard the metal shuttle as he cocked his gun.

“I need you to look at me when I do this, Y/N,” he said.

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this for a prompt challenge on Tumblr and I probably owe a million apologies to the prompter because this was what they sent me: "For fun fic Friday, can you do reader sick but trying to suck it up, the boys finally notice when reader pukes/does something very odd at a gas station. Lots of fluff, I just see Dean flipping out because he was not told she was sick. Have fun!!!"
> 
> (I love this fic and am so proud of it but nobody will ever read it because it's not only reader insert but also major character death. ALAS)


End file.
